Another Rick Bites the Dust
by JackHabbit
Summary: A Rick looking back over his younger life in New York hanging out on a building with some dark plans. CW; Suicide


Rick sits at the edge of the building, staring out at the city; the skyscraper he perches on so casually is new here. Everything is. The New York he knew as a young man in the late 1970s. The sleazy age, living it up with artists, prostitutes, the hot underbelly of the underground scene that he positioned himself at constantly was gone. Everything was gone. The brightest days for him, the little seedy community he had, the friends, the easy drugs and massive parties- the uncomplicated joy of snorting and fucking and partying, the fun and the crime. How small things had been, how tiny his view, half closed his eyes. And when he met her, things couldn't have seemed simpler. A cute little white chick slinging around the pole at his favorite club, paying her for lapdances, eventually for little "extras" on the side, sweeping her off her feet entirely, and finally robbing a train with her. She had been his sweet Bonnie, and he had been her skinny, sleazy Clyde.

He looked down at the city- he couldn't see it, but he knew what was down there. Well dressed people rushing their way across sidewalks, rushing to get to high pressure jobs to pay for expensive living spaces, and an armful of homeless people bumping about hoping to god to get enough dollars to eat something, maybe shoot up and numb the pain for just a little while, to make it through one more day. Gone were the hundreds of barely surviving, creative, shady, sexy young people trading art and sex and cigarettes and drugs, gone was the hot and shuddering underground, gone were the days you could blow someone to earn a night on their couch. Gone was the cheap blow you could buy with a crappy amateur painting. Gone was hopping on the train to rob a well to do square and living for a month of the earnings, and knowing he made enough to be just fine anyway. Such a carefree time.

He took a huge pull from his flask and leaned back, turning his attention to the sky, tinged in grey in a way he did not remember. When she had gotten pregnant, she finally told him her real name, not just her stage name that he adored so much, the ingenious Mary Jane. Those days had been bright blue skied, almost painfully bright, and the sun had bleached the world- they had hid in the dark like rats. And he had tried to be good, at first. When she told him, his anger was at the stereotype he was about to fulfill by being angry more than at the news itself. But quickly, his ability to ignore reality by focusing on himself disappeared, and the real ramifications of a pregnant girlfriend hit home. Of all their problems and squabbles, this was the only one that snorting or shooting up would not smooth over, and in fact, was not allowed by his sweet, somewhat complicated young lover. For a man who Did Not Have A Problem, this was difficult.

He would shout. She would cry. Fast forward thirteen years. He was still yelling. She was done crying. She told him to leave. He left. He wasn't there… but he knew Beth cried. He'd felt so relieved at the time, but it was only a matter of months before there was something else to run from. He had driven to a motel, tried to pull off some robberies alone, had to run from the police, gotten sick of New York, fled the city, wanted a space with less people to work on the science he finally had time for, fled the state, and when he finally developed the portal gun- he fled the Earth.

He stared into the clouds, the pain of memory dulled by resignation, and didn't flinch as images of the past floated across his mind's eye.

He had always fled, since he was sixteen. For sixty four years, fleeing fleeing, from something. He didn't know anymore what it was he wanted to escape, what he was running from. He was just tired. He sat up. The absolute peak of the Empire state building was small and just above him as he sat in the scaffolding area just below, far above the public's heads. He was only slightly ashamed that his Grandson's face only briefly crossed his mind as he stepped to the edge, but there was little enough to be ashamed about now. It was a drop in the ocean of his sins. It had been long enough. It was time to stop running. It was about time to go home; there was nothing left to save or win, no widows and no orphans. The sensation of falling was familiar enough- the speed was new- time to throw out a portal above the ocean so he didn't crush any rushing passerby far below- and-


End file.
